


Made for This

by soda_coded



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Canon-Typical Violence, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Murder Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26558881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soda_coded/pseuds/soda_coded
Summary: Martin leaned close, and Malcolm watched the man’s eyes follow the movement, before darting back down to the knife, barely visible between them all. “What he doesn’t know, is what you’ll do.” Martin whispered, hot and secret into his ear.Fill for the km, Malcolm doesn't find out what Martin is until college.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	Made for This

**Author's Note:**

> I said I'd do it forever ago, and then i did it, and then it sat in a notebook until I got around to typing it. I want the new season already >:O

Malcolm was smiling when he picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear.

“Hey dad.” He said. Leaned forward and zipped his suitcase shut, trying to make sure it fully closed.

“Malcolm!” Martin exclaimed, and his dad must be working because he could hear the sounds of a full hospital behind his words. Martin sounded breathless and joyous and alright, Malcolm was a little excited too. “It’s good to hear you son! You’re already packed?”

“Just finished.” Malcolm reassured him, his smile widening. He was more than excited. Almost six months since he’d been home and anticipation settled on him like sweat- warm, itchy, not unwelcome. “How about you? Got everything you need for this ‘surprise’ you’ve planned?”

Martin laughed, delighted with him and the sound warmed his anticipation with nostalgia, the sudden rush of emotion making him pause, hand on his luggage, thinking he might tear up.  _ God _ . Big college man, and still such a baby. That’s what his mother would say.

“I think so.” Martin said. “I think you’ll love it- I just want everything to be perfect.”

“It will be.” Malcolm said. “Besides, I’m just thankful I’ll get to see-”

“It’s all your mother’s talked about.” Martin dropped, nonchalantly.

“What? When I questioned her, she said she didn’t know anything about your ‘surprise’-”

“Hah! I knew it!” Martin exclaimed and Malcolm laughed. “I told you to be  _ patient _ -”

“Please! You knew I’d ask…” Malcolm teased. “Basic psychology.”

“Not my degree.” Martin suggested warmly. “That’s more your area, my boy. How are classes?”

“Finally done!” Malcolm said, and some of the heady triumph he felt every time he thought about his first semester of solid A’s must have come through, because his dad was laughing at him again.

“Good. No time for anything but fun, this weekend.”

“Can’t wait.” Malcolm said.

“Hey, wake up. We’re here.” Malcolm half-turned at the sound of his dad’s hushed voice, sleep making him squint even in the dark. Martin was facing him in his seat and as Malcolm peered out from under his lashes, his dad put a hand on his thigh, shaking a little to wake him.

Malcolm couldn’t see his face for the halo of the porchlight made of his curls, but his voice was soft and warm as he spoke again. “Son. You have to wake up.”

“Mm.” Malcolm said, and the hand disappeared, cool where he’d been warm, and Martin had been right, psychology was more of Malcolm’s thing. Which meant easy insight: he shouldn’t feel so fucking thirsty at a fatherly gesture. He sat up, using motion to make distance. Gathered his jacket, his empty coffee cup and himself before slipping out of the warm interior of the car, and into the early December chill.

“Think the firewood is dry?” Martin asked, and Malcolm smiled, shaking his head. They hadn’t been up here in almost three years… he doubted it.

Understood why his mother hadn’t been able to understand why they were going now.

_ “In the middle of freezing winter.” She’d said, watching Malcolm eat finger foods she’d put out on the counter for him. Martin was behind her, eyes rolling, making Malcolm smile. He’d missed this. He honestly hadn’t been sure he would. _

_ Things had been… tense when he’d left. _

_ “You shouldn’t give him everything he wants.” She told Malcolm, picking up a cube of cheese, only to drop it when Martin attacked, lunging to grab and tickle her. “Mart-  _ Martin _ -ahaha-you monster, hands to yourself-!” _

_ Malcolm looked away, popping olives into his mouth with the sort of determination he usually reserved for his sleeping pills. _

_ “I wanted to.” He told her as she caught her breath, heels settling to the floor after being pulled into a kiss. He’d wondered, even then- _

He followed Martin up the steps. No porch, just clean snow, and Malcolm looked over the expanse as Martin unlocked their accommodations for the next three days.

Stamped the snow off his boots as he stepped inside, his dad already across the room and after a moment, a light above the stove clicked on, bathing the simple set up in pale amber light.

“Cleaner than I thought it would be.” Malcolm said. He dumped his duffle on the couch, and crossed to the kitchen.

“I… came and readied it last weekend.” Martin said, self-deprecatingly, and no, Malcolm didn’t know why this hunting trip was important when they hadn’t even gone camping in three years was so important. But if it mattered to Dad, it mattered to him. “I just wanted this to be…”

“Perfect.” Malcolm finished and Martin laughed.

“Exactly.” Martin said, and then clapped his hands together. “Alright, well. Why don’t you go get cleaned up and I’ll see what I can scare up for dinner.”

“You sure?” Malcolm asked, somewhat reluctant to leave the warm glow of the kitchen. “I can help-”

Martin crossed the short space between them and pulled Malcolm into a crushing hug, trapping his arms at his sides so all Malcolm could do was bury his face into his neck and breathe.

He wanted to give Martin  _ everything _ .

“This weekend is for you.” Martin said, pulling back enough to look into Malcolm’s eyes, his own twinkling merrily with emotion. “I’m- I’m just so proud of you Malcolm, and I think these six months have made me realize how _ little _ time we have left-”

“What?” Malcolm interrupted, and Martin reached out to grip his upper arms, putting them chest to chest. Malcolm swallowed. He had to make him understand. “ _ Dad _ -”

“No- I. I get it. There was a time before your mother, when I was a young man. It’s good for you to grow on your own. But when you didn’t come home  _ at all _ -”

Martin stopped, searching his son’s eyes and Malcolm wanted to tell him everything. He always did, Ainsley had been calling him a tattletale as long as she’d been alive, the brat- but this time it wasn’t guilt driving him, it was the promise of relief. This afflicting love, the desire for a stronger bond, that apparently distance and hookups and constant worry couldn’t fix. He wanted to sit on Dad’s lap and whisper to him every dirty, burning feeling he’d ever had.

He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Malcolm tried, and Martin’s face crumpled a little, some emotion stronger than disappointment flickering before he reined it in. Pressed his face into a familiar, comforting smile.

“It’s okay, son.” He said. “I have you now.” 

When Martin woke him this time, Malcolm was sleeping deeply after a meal of venison from the deep freezer. His first thought was that he was back in the car. A hand on his leg, jostling him where he lay underneath a too-warm flannel sheet.

“Malcolm.” Martin whispered, the sound carrying in the bizarre silence, so different from his Harvard adjacent dorm. “Wake up, son. Time for your surprise.”

Malcolm stretched, sending his father’s hand skating up his hip before he pulled away, only to land back on Malcolm’s shoulder. Another shake, and Malcolm forced his eyes open, looking up at the dark mass of his father above him. His room was pitch, even with the curtains open.

“Come on, son.” He urged and Malcolm sat up, sheet sliding from his skin to pool in his lap. His eyes were scratchy from exhaustion, and he blinked, trying to clear them as he stared up at his dad.

“What- what time is it?” He asked.

“About three.” Martin said almost sheepishly. Not quite. Smiled, big teeth visible against the dark curls of his beard. “Witching hour. Come on, get up, I’ll meet you on the porch.”

“ _ Three _ ?” Malcolm said, but he was already searching for his pants with one hand. Of course, he still wished he’d put on more layers when he stepped out onto the porch where Martin was standing. His father was fully bundled, the big coat making him look even bigger.

“Hmm.” Was all he said when he saw Malcolm, before he pulled off his hat and jammed it atop Malcolm’s head. Malcolm shuffled it in shaking hands, situating the front frontwise, and shoving his hair out of his eyes. By the time he could see, Martin was disappearing into the forest in front of him, his steps in the new snow a clear invitation to follow.

“Dad!” Malcolm shouted, slippered feet teetering on the edge of his porch. “Dad?”

Wind whipped his words away from him, casting them out into the dark, and after a moment's hesitation, Malcolm joined them, stepping into his father’s quickly filling footsteps.

It felt colder, the further he got from the orange safety of the porches single bulb, and Malcolm rubbed his sweatered arms as he picked his way through the late winter’s underbrush. He knew how dangerous it was to be out here at night- how a single, snowy misstep could send him plummeting, could break an ankle. Ignoring the cold, he focused on filling the shape of his dad’s tracks, stretching his legs to take bigger steps. They were barely visible under the half-moon, and Malcolm hurried, trying to beat the snow before it erased any trace of him at all.

He'd started to really worry, when he heard him, speaking softly ahead and Malcolm shouted again. “Dad?”

“Up here, son!” Martin called back, and Malcolm pushed forward, ignoring the chill in his toes, the way the wind bit at his cheeks and nose and neck, pushed through the line of trees before stopping.

“Dad?” He asked again, and even he could hear the fear in his voice, but Martin just smiled at him, held out a hand.

“It’s okay, son.” He said. The man tied up lying bare-chested in the snow groaned again, only just louder than the wind. “Come here.”

Malcolm, shivering, crossed the distance between them, reaching out to take his father’s hand. He didn’t realize his father was handing him his hunting knife until he closed his fingers around the cool metal.

“He’s hurt.” Malcolm said dumbly. He was. His ribs were bruised heavily enough to be contusions, the skin of his arms and cheeks abraded. Maybe he’d been drugged? By who? How did Dad even know he was here, at night, in the middle of nowhere. “Are you going to help him?”

“No.” Martin said still smiling a big wolfish grin under the moonlight. “You are.”

What?

Malcolm looked up at Martin’s fingers, cold around the knife. How? He hadn’t even brought enough layers for himself. Why hadn’t Dad even cut him loose yet…

“Who is he?” Malcolm asked, tasting bitter tea.

“Some janitor I found snooping in my files.” Marin said, and dug the toe of his boot into the man’s gut, rolling him so Malcolm could see his grim, tear-stained face. “Someone unimportant. Well. Not for long.”

Martin smiled at him, flakes of snow dotting his beard like beads on lace, and drew a finger across his throat, making a ‘blegh’ sound. The man at their feet groaned. He was covered in snowflakes too, and dots of water where they’d melted on his feverish skin. He must have been drugged… the way his eyes were still dark and dilated, reflecting the moon high above them.

“Why?” Malcolm whispered.

“Why?” Martin looked surprised, and then he laughed, too big for the still darkness around them. “Well, I had a pretty little blonde all picked out for you, before you left but…”

Malcolm swallowed. Before he’d left, he’d finally told his dad he was gay. Not… not the rest. Not what he truly wanted to tell him, but he had to do something or it felt like the lies would swallow him whole.

“What happened to her?” Malcolm asked. He didn’t want to know, not really.

“Oh, I helped myself.” Martin said. “I’m an… omnivore.”

A monster, Malcolm thought numbly and looked down at the knife in his hand. His knife.

“Why?” He asked again and for the first time since he’d been home Martin frowned.

“To bring us back together, my boy.” Martin said, and reached out to clap him on the back, rocking him in his soaking slippers. The man on the ground was crying, tears leaking hot from the corners of his eyes to his gag. Malcolm knew what that tasted like, hot and salty, throat raw from sobbing.

He looked back up, and flinched away from the storm of his father’s expression.

“Six months, Malcolm.” Martin said, hissed. “Six months without a call or a text or a… a picture! Nothing!”

He throws an arm out, gesturing at their captive making him and Malcolm flinch.

“I had to do something.” He said. “And this… you’re my boy. You were made for this.”

“No.” Malcolm said, but his voice shook from the cold.

“Yes, you were.” Martin said, gently, so gently. “You were made exactly for this. I made you, son, I should know. It’s practically in the pre-nup… your mother gets Ainsley to doll up, show off on the weekends. And I get  _ you _ .”

“No.” Malcolm said, shaking his head hard enough that he closed his eyes and when he opened them Martin had stepped closer to him, close enough that Malcolm could feel the warmth he was giving off, cutting the wind. “I’m not- I can’t-”

“You can.” Martin said, and his eyes were so dark. “You’re my son, Malcolm. That means you have the same darkness as I do. It’s our legacy…”

“Our legacy?” Malcolm asked, his voice rising as his agitation grew. “You- Dad, you’re a doctor, you save people, we can’t-”

“We can and we will!” Martin snapped scowling fiercely at him. “I won’t lose you to the  _ glamorous life _ of a freshman, Malcolm. What was I supposed to do when you wouldn’t come home, and you wouldn’t tell us why-”

Malcolm leaned up on his tiptoes, and kissed him, closing the small frigid distance between them to press his mouth to his fathers. This darkness had begun because he'd tried to run away. Maybe he'd try facing his darkness. The connection lasted for only a second, before Malcolm dropped back to earth, trying to make out his father’s expression.

“My dear boy.” Martin said, his voice warm with promise. “I had no idea- is  _ that _ why-”

“Psychology was never your specialty.” Malcolm said through numb lips.

“But it is yours…” Malcolm mused, wrapping an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders, one hand going to the base of his neck and squeezing. “Alright, look at how I do this, son.”

Martin dropped to a crouch, dragging Malcolm with him, guiding him to his knees with weight and the pressure of his palm.

“Just look at him for a moment.” Martin asked, voice a warm rumble and Malcolm did, his hand frozen to his knife. He looked at how he shivered, at how red his eyes were from his tears, the dark, ugly press of bruises on his tan skin. How stiff his nipples were from the cold. Just like Malcolm’s. “He knows what I want, Malcolm. He knows what I’ve asked of you.”

Martin leaned close, and Malcolm watched the man’s eyes follow the movement, before darting back down to the knife, barely visible between them all.

“What he doesn’t know, is what you’ll do.” Martin whispered, hot and secret into his ear. He pressed a kiss right after, loud from the brush of his beard, a stopper on the hungry mouth of a bottle. Sealed his want into Malcolm’s skull. “Ready?”

Malcolm couldn’t ever remember if he nodded or not.

He remembered how hot the blood was across his hands, their hands. He rinsed it off with water twice as hot back at the cabin, with water hot, like boiling, his dad complaining about medieval sterilization. It stained the white sink basin, catching on the cracks in the ancient paint, the same way it clung to his nails, and the little creases where his wrists joined his hands. Had he nodded? Had he pulled the knife? Had he killed that man, like cleaning a deer, staining the snow around them?

“Good boy.” Martin purred, placing possessive hands on his shoulders, so that when Malcolm looked up, he wasn’t alone in the mirror. He spent too long looking into his eyes, the dark of his own irises, and after a moment his dad reached out, and turned the water off gently. It left them in silence. 

The kiss pressed to his neck made him shudder. So soft, even with the rasp of his full beard. Something he’d seen him do to his mother a million times. It made his stomach swoop, and he ducked his head, suddenly sure he’d vomit into the pink sink.

“My good boy.” Martin whispered again. 

Had he nodded? Had he pressed the blade home, sheathing it in muscle, cutting a neck like nothing?

Did it matter? 

Like father, like son.


End file.
